Yellow House


The ink that was used

To write your postmortem

was barely drying when I

realized the storm had died down.

And no gardens dared to bloom

on your hospital bed as

you searched

across the glass wall

a familiar face,

your babes,

nowhere to be seen in the

sea of beeps and


but you brave through it all,

wide-eyed, facing death

in a manner in which it

was humbled;

The dying was not graceful,

You knew it never was,

but death could never raise

its chin and look you in

the eye

without marvelling at

the temple it

had conquered.


And all that’s left of you

is this house.

A rotting cheese in between


squeezed among the

talking walls.


He never stepped foot

inside your shared room.

Only once, when he

imagined you’re in

the  bathroom

shunning your monsters

asked for your clothes-

He opened the drawers that

was full of you, your

veins, overlapping at the


A tight grip squeezed

what’s left of regrets;

reciting your

dreams over and over

won’t ever bring

you back.


It was at 4pm when I heard

the news;

the sunlight lends its rays

to the two souls


The crowded room seemed

To sleep in the whispers

of the cooled room,

the whirr

Enveloping the needle

that fell in the vast

nothingness of time.

She’s gone.


I never tasted tears

with heavy bitterness

when it comes to her;

Only feathered


on cold cement.

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